I met a guy called Paul today at work.
Discussion
I met Paul for the first time at his flat today. It wasn’t the worst flat I’ve ever been, not by a long chalk. A newish development of three storey buildings. Paul lived on the top floor, alone. He had all the usual trappings of life. TV, laptop, mobile. His car parked outside in a numbered bay. There was a bit of dirt and clutter here and there, a few empty wine and beer bottles, but certainly nothing out of the ordinary. Paul smelt though. Really, really smelt. Paul’s a white guy, in his 50s, lives alone.
There was obvious damage to the front door of Paul’s flat. The whole side of the door had been smashed in, leaving a six inch gap between the broken door edge and the door frame. Nothing had been stolen though, so that was good news. Apart from the front door, everything else looked OK.
I felt a bit sorry for Paul. It didn’t look like he really had anyone close or looking after him. I don’t think he was in the best of health. Of course, when we arrived, we got scowled at by Paul’s neighbours for cluttering up the car park.
What did Paul want to tell me? Nothing. Paul hadn’t called the Police, that day or previously. Neither had his neighbours, or his family. Paul wasn’t known to the Police. Paul hadn’t been well and he’d been signed off sick from work. Paul’s work had called us, as his last sick note had run out three weeks previously and they’d not heard from him. Paul hadn’t answered his mobile, or the intercom at the main flat door when his colleagues tried to get hold of him. Paul hadn’t mentioned going away anywhere and his car was still in the car park.
So the Police broke down Paul’s flat door and the smell that poured out had the first officer on his knees like he’d been sucker punched. The officers covered their mouths and noses with their sleeves and went in to the flat, then came straight back out again. “Can we have CID to the scene, please?”
So I grab some car keys and drive the Detective Inspector down there. I moan about my family, he tells me about his kids getting over their chicken pox. We park up near the flat and there are half a dozen neighbours who suddenly have urgent “front door” tasks with their letterboxes and wheelie bins. No one quite plucks up the courage to ask us what we’re doing there though.
We get out of the underpowered diesel Corsa and go over towards the Transit van and a distinctly green looking uniform colleague. As we get towards the van, the reason for the appearance of our colleague makes itself known to us. Even out at ground level in the car park of the U-shaped block, three stories down from Paul’s flat, there is “that” smell. But it’s worse than a smell. It’s a stench and we all know it’s going to be bad.
We stick some gloves and face masks on and go into the communal stairway. The smell gets exponentially worse and I can already feel and taste the bile rising at the back of my throat. We climb the three flights of stairs to the hallway outside Paul’s flat. Because I’m fat and out of shape, I’m breathing more heavily than I’d like to be when we get there. If the smell was bad outside in the car park and worse in the stairwell, now, it’s… nauseating. There is nothing that smells quite like a dead body.
When the body has lain there, undetected for six weeks, that smell is indescribable. We go to the front door and have a look to ensure there is nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the damage caused on entry. Stand. Pause. Look. Think. Try not to breathe. Try to see what should be there, what shouldn’t be there. Guess about Paul and his life up to now.
We go into the flat and do the same in the hallway. Stop. Stand. Look. We turn left and go into Paul’s lounge. Paul is lying on his back on the sofa. Paul is – was – a white man. His skin is blackened and swollen. There is a pool of blood and other body fluid on the laminate floor under the sofa. Paul has been dead for so long that flies have laid eggs which have turned into maggots. There are trails out of the pooled blood where the maggots have crawled away to pupate, like roots from a root ball of a plant. There are empty larval cases which crunch when walk on them. Maggots crawl around on Paul’s skin. I pull back the blanket Paul is lying under. He is still clothed and I say a silent thanks that I’m not the poor sod who’s going to have to undress him at the mortuary. It’s impossible to examine Paul as to move him will make him fall to pieces. We’re not going to be able to ID Paul from fingerprints, that’s for sure.
We check the rest of the flat. The first officer at the scene tells us the flat door was locked and none of the neighbours had seen or heard anything unusual. The only entry to the flat is the front door, now in pieces in Paul’s hall. The first officer tells us there was a small transom window open. I make a mental note that the front door must have been an excellent fire door to stop that smell getting out of Paul’s flat.
We check the rest of the flat. Nothing appears touched, damaged, stolen. We find a driving licence in Paul’s name and seize it. There is medication for high blood pressure and a blood pressure monitor. Heart attack? The DI says he happy that for now, it’s not suspicious. The removal of Paul’s body isn’t going to be down to a rota undertaker, we’re going to have to call out the underwater search unit. They’ll wear suits and breathing apparatus while they put – pour – Paul’s body into a body bag.
The DI and leave the flat, go down the stairs and into the car park. We take off our gloves and masks and dump then in a biohazard bag. We breathe in the fresh air in the car park. Neither of us speak. We still have the stench of decay on our skin, in our hair, on our clothes.
I drive us back to the nick, in silence, with all the windows down. I go and get changed into another suit and shirt from my locker. I make a brew, type up the report and get some lunch. When I go back to my locker at the end of the day, I can still smell that stench on my suit. I briefly consider binning it but chuck it in a bin bag to get dry cleaned.
I met Paul for the first time today. I won’t see Paul again, except in my mind’s eye. Paul is one of many people who still stalk my imagination. Not maliciously, they are just there.
I met Paul for the last time today.
There was obvious damage to the front door of Paul’s flat. The whole side of the door had been smashed in, leaving a six inch gap between the broken door edge and the door frame. Nothing had been stolen though, so that was good news. Apart from the front door, everything else looked OK.
I felt a bit sorry for Paul. It didn’t look like he really had anyone close or looking after him. I don’t think he was in the best of health. Of course, when we arrived, we got scowled at by Paul’s neighbours for cluttering up the car park.
What did Paul want to tell me? Nothing. Paul hadn’t called the Police, that day or previously. Neither had his neighbours, or his family. Paul wasn’t known to the Police. Paul hadn’t been well and he’d been signed off sick from work. Paul’s work had called us, as his last sick note had run out three weeks previously and they’d not heard from him. Paul hadn’t answered his mobile, or the intercom at the main flat door when his colleagues tried to get hold of him. Paul hadn’t mentioned going away anywhere and his car was still in the car park.
So the Police broke down Paul’s flat door and the smell that poured out had the first officer on his knees like he’d been sucker punched. The officers covered their mouths and noses with their sleeves and went in to the flat, then came straight back out again. “Can we have CID to the scene, please?”
So I grab some car keys and drive the Detective Inspector down there. I moan about my family, he tells me about his kids getting over their chicken pox. We park up near the flat and there are half a dozen neighbours who suddenly have urgent “front door” tasks with their letterboxes and wheelie bins. No one quite plucks up the courage to ask us what we’re doing there though.
We get out of the underpowered diesel Corsa and go over towards the Transit van and a distinctly green looking uniform colleague. As we get towards the van, the reason for the appearance of our colleague makes itself known to us. Even out at ground level in the car park of the U-shaped block, three stories down from Paul’s flat, there is “that” smell. But it’s worse than a smell. It’s a stench and we all know it’s going to be bad.
We stick some gloves and face masks on and go into the communal stairway. The smell gets exponentially worse and I can already feel and taste the bile rising at the back of my throat. We climb the three flights of stairs to the hallway outside Paul’s flat. Because I’m fat and out of shape, I’m breathing more heavily than I’d like to be when we get there. If the smell was bad outside in the car park and worse in the stairwell, now, it’s… nauseating. There is nothing that smells quite like a dead body.
When the body has lain there, undetected for six weeks, that smell is indescribable. We go to the front door and have a look to ensure there is nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the damage caused on entry. Stand. Pause. Look. Think. Try not to breathe. Try to see what should be there, what shouldn’t be there. Guess about Paul and his life up to now.
We go into the flat and do the same in the hallway. Stop. Stand. Look. We turn left and go into Paul’s lounge. Paul is lying on his back on the sofa. Paul is – was – a white man. His skin is blackened and swollen. There is a pool of blood and other body fluid on the laminate floor under the sofa. Paul has been dead for so long that flies have laid eggs which have turned into maggots. There are trails out of the pooled blood where the maggots have crawled away to pupate, like roots from a root ball of a plant. There are empty larval cases which crunch when walk on them. Maggots crawl around on Paul’s skin. I pull back the blanket Paul is lying under. He is still clothed and I say a silent thanks that I’m not the poor sod who’s going to have to undress him at the mortuary. It’s impossible to examine Paul as to move him will make him fall to pieces. We’re not going to be able to ID Paul from fingerprints, that’s for sure.
We check the rest of the flat. The first officer at the scene tells us the flat door was locked and none of the neighbours had seen or heard anything unusual. The only entry to the flat is the front door, now in pieces in Paul’s hall. The first officer tells us there was a small transom window open. I make a mental note that the front door must have been an excellent fire door to stop that smell getting out of Paul’s flat.
We check the rest of the flat. Nothing appears touched, damaged, stolen. We find a driving licence in Paul’s name and seize it. There is medication for high blood pressure and a blood pressure monitor. Heart attack? The DI says he happy that for now, it’s not suspicious. The removal of Paul’s body isn’t going to be down to a rota undertaker, we’re going to have to call out the underwater search unit. They’ll wear suits and breathing apparatus while they put – pour – Paul’s body into a body bag.
The DI and leave the flat, go down the stairs and into the car park. We take off our gloves and masks and dump then in a biohazard bag. We breathe in the fresh air in the car park. Neither of us speak. We still have the stench of decay on our skin, in our hair, on our clothes.
I drive us back to the nick, in silence, with all the windows down. I go and get changed into another suit and shirt from my locker. I make a brew, type up the report and get some lunch. When I go back to my locker at the end of the day, I can still smell that stench on my suit. I briefly consider binning it but chuck it in a bin bag to get dry cleaned.
I met Paul for the first time today. I won’t see Paul again, except in my mind’s eye. Paul is one of many people who still stalk my imagination. Not maliciously, they are just there.
I met Paul for the last time today.
Shame no one remembers this stuff when they're kicking off over something as insignificant in the grand scheme of things as a ticket. Shame those people don't appreciate that first responders have to deal with the things most others couldn't even imagine much less live with afterwards, or that the bodies or viscera from accidents just up and take care of themselves, off the road, out of sight, out of mind.
Don't envy you having to do this sort of stuff. No one else will, but some of us do respect those that do.
Don't envy you having to do this sort of stuff. No one else will, but some of us do respect those that do.
Alucidnation said:
Thanks for sharing.
Maybe next time don't bother eh?
Your opinion maybe but doesn't reflect mine.Maybe next time don't bother eh?
RIP Paul and I hope it was quick.
OP thanks for doing the jobs 'you' do. 'You' get plenty of grief and 'you' aren't perfect but we'd be a significantly poorer society without all the good things 'you' and your ilk do for us.
My local force has stopped using the marine unit for cleanup at messy jobs. Now it's the local undertakers with paper suits, dust masks and a dustpan.
The regret though, when you climb a flight of stairs quickly and need several deep breaths at the top amidst the foetid stench of rotting flesh, is something that I'd guess many officers will know.
The regret though, when you climb a flight of stairs quickly and need several deep breaths at the top amidst the foetid stench of rotting flesh, is something that I'd guess many officers will know.
Dgr90 said:
Im glad it isnt me doing that job, I wouldnt have the balls to do it. What a horrible way to go, just laying there with nobody knowing, or caring.
Just got back from a work mates funeral. He didn't really have any mates as such, but knew loads of people. His health was failing after a long life of perfect health, which he couldn't cope with, so he took his own life. People do care, as was demonstrated by there being standing room only at the crem' today. Some times people just need to say "I need some help, thanks". That's all, just ask people. Maybe Paul didn't have any or many mates, but there were probably people that were missing him but didn't know anything would have been wrong.
I remember the days before underwater search started doing non-wet body removals. Bodies are ok to move when they're fresh and ok to move when all the soft tissue has decomposed (anywhere between 8 weeks and 6 months depending on the environment), but they're a thousand different shades of awful to deal with when they're putrifying.
I always tried to treat the dead with a level of dignity and respect, but it's not easy when you're gagging on your breakfast as they come apart like an overcooked turkey and you have to scrape the last of the remains up with a shovel.
Very sad when someone dies alone unnoticed and lies undiscovered for weeks until someone complains about the smell.
Top tip - never buy a second-hand shovel from an underwater search team.
I always tried to treat the dead with a level of dignity and respect, but it's not easy when you're gagging on your breakfast as they come apart like an overcooked turkey and you have to scrape the last of the remains up with a shovel.
Very sad when someone dies alone unnoticed and lies undiscovered for weeks until someone complains about the smell.
Top tip - never buy a second-hand shovel from an underwater search team.
Countdown said:
Boshly said:
OP thanks for doing the jobs 'you' do. 'You' get plenty of grief and 'you' aren't perfect but we'd be a significantly poorer society without all the good things 'you' and your ilk do for us.
Agreed.Gassing Station | Speed, Plod & the Law | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff